An Honest Woman
by mahc
Summary: JED-CHARLIE POST-EP FOR 'THINGS FALL APART' - “Evening, Charlie.” The voice stopped him, its terrifyingly familiar tone freezing his legs in mid-step, his heart in mid-pump. Oh God. Oh God. Well, not exactly God. But pretty close.


This is a mid-to-post ep fic for "Things Fall Apart," told from Charlie's POV. It is definitely a spoiler for the show and the scenes between Jed and Charlie, so be warned. Hope you enjoy it!

An Honest Woman

A _West Wing_ Story

By MAHC

Characters: Charlie and Jed

POV: Charlie

Spoilers: "ITSOTG;" "AISTTC;" "Things Fall Apart"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, and most of the dialogue was lifted from the episode; however, I did all of the surrounding description and Charlie's thoughts, as well as some additional dialogue.

The kiss was soft, lingering, loving. Charlie Young counted his blessings every day that he had her back, that she was not lost to him – to any of them. He knew their rendezvous were risky, realized he tempted fate each time he sneaked into her room – even if the First Lady had a general knowledge that it happened from time to time. He also knew that the President was completely unaware, since he still spoke to him, and since the secret service had not yet shown up at his door to break all the bones in his body.

Zoey threw him one last smile, that teasing, enigmatic, seductive look that made him yearn to stay longer. But they had tempted fate enough for one night. With a satisfied, reflective smirk, he stepped into the hallway. All was quiet. It was way past midnight. The President would be sleeping. The coast was clear.

"Evening, Charlie." The voice stopped him, its terrifyingly familiar tone freezing his legs in mid-step, his heart in mid-pump.

Oh God. Oh God.

Well, not exactly God.

But pretty close.

His muscles held him immobile for a long moment; when his heart re-started it raced, propelled by the surge of adrenaline at the greeting, soft and even – and dangerous. He was dead. Clearly, this was the end of his life. He had had a good run, even as young as he was. Personal aide to the President. Georgetown graduate. Special Assistant to the Chief of Staff. Who wouldn't think that was enough? But it was all over now.

Where the hell had he come from, anyway? Charlie had been very careful to keep his eyes and body turned toward the presidential bedroom, tuned into each creak, each indication of movement. Or so he thought. But he had been flanked.

Slowly, he turned, like a criminal caught in the act – or at least not long after the act. His mind searched for the appropriate response, the least inflammatory phrase for such a situation.

How are you tonight, sir? Unwise.

Hey! What a surprise. Dangerous.

Fancy meeting you here, Jed. Suicidal.

Didn't really matter, he supposed, since he didn't figure Josiah Bartlet was at all interested in anything he had to say at that particular moment.

"Mister President. Um – " Smooth. Now he would be finding out if it really was that easy to send someone to the Yukon.

The President of the United States, clad in pajamas and a deep blue robe, limped toward him, leaning on his cane with each step. But instead of making him seem weak, the handsomely carved wood took on more the appearance of a weapon than a walking aid. Charlie had a vision of Blackbeard advancing menacingly on the wretched sailor about to walk the plank.

That voice was deceptively soft. "Listening to relentless attacks upon my record seems to have left me wakeful. Thought I'd stretch my legs." He drew closer. Charlie couldn't move. "So it's really the Republicans' fault that we're caught in this terribly embarrassing situation." His eyes cut just briefly toward Zoey's door, then looked away, as if he was trying not to envision what might have occurred behind it.

Speak. Say something. "It's – " Brain empty. Words gone. Oh God.

The Almighty rescued him. "I think perhaps the best thing is for us to carry on as if this encounter hadn't happened."

Right. "Due respect. I'm havin' a hard time exactly imagining that." Imagining anything except those piercing blue eyes shooting lasers directly through his heart.

"It's one in the morning. We both have to be at work in a few hours." He glanced again at the closed door. "And you're standing outside my daughter's bedroom."

The Yukon would be merciful.

"I say we give it a shot." He turned, headed back the way he came. Charlie wondered where he was going. To summon the firing squad, perhaps.

But he just added, "Night, Charlie."

After a beat, Charlie answered, "Good night, Mister President," and headed in the opposite direction, delaying his back-track until he was sure no one lay in wait to ambush him when he rounded the corner.

He considered going after him, thought about trying to talk man-to-man. After all it wasn't like he had never caught the President and First Lady – no, bad example. Married versus not married. President versus peon. Angry father versus compromised suitor.

No, best just to focus on the blessings. He was still alive, not even injured, and not banished from the White House forever. It was almost too good to be true.

The call from Debbie Fiderer came the next day, the message slashing through the hopefulness of the previous night. It had, apparently, been too good to be true. The President had summoned him to the Oval Office.

A presidential summons. Might as well pack now. He wondered if it snowed year-round in the Yukon.

The secretary glanced up as he approached, her eyes twinkling with obvious insider information. "Hey, Casanova."

Dead. He was dead.

"He in?" Of course he was in. He wouldn't miss out on the evisceration, would he?

She tossed her head toward the closed door. "Good luck."

He needed more than that.

Okay, act casual. Maybe it's about something completely different.

Right.

"Mister President, you wanted to see me?" Disembowel me? Castrate me?

Josiah Bartlet turned slowly from his position in front of the window, his movement slow, but not from any physical limitation. Reluctance to look upon the man who had violated his daughter seemed to guide him. He appeared quite presidential in the vest, perhaps even more intimidating sans coat than with one.

"You were right," he began, surprising Charlie. "Avoiding last night is really not going to work."

"Yes, sir." Couldn't we give it a try, though?

He walked around the desk, bracing on the cane. "I don't want to get all righteously paternal – "

It was now or never. Might as well get it out in the open. Take the offensive. He was screwed already anyway. Without quite realizing that he had interrupted the President of the United States, Charlie said, "Sir, I don't want to sneak around the White House anymore."

The President was directly in front of him now, continuing as if he had not really heard what he said. "I'm not trying to break you two up."

"No, sir. I'm talking about actually seeing more of Zoey." Oh, hell. That came out wrong. Really wrong.

That noble head swung toward him, those blue eyes nailed him.

Charlie attempted a clarification. "More – time with her. Spent together."

The nails drove deeper into his brain, right between the eyes.

"Being together," Charlie stumbled. "And such."

Oh God.

The President drew a breath, took a moment, probably considering whether or not to invite the press to the execution.

"Charlie," he began carefully, leaning on his cane with both hands, "the President's daughter can't move in with somebody, and I – assume you understand that you cannot – "

"Move in here. Yes, sir. That had occurred to me." Oops. Not the best time for sarcasm.

Now Jed Bartlet frowned, narrowing his eyes as he did when he had been thrown the rare curve ball. "Then I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure what you m – " He stopped and tilted his head. Charlie could almost hear the connections click. "Oh." Another pause. He was obviously approaching this revelation with wariness. "Are you – talking about – "

The response was just as halting. Were they on the same page? "Ah, y-yes, sir?" Maybe?

Now he lowered his chin. "You wanna make an honest woman out of her?"

"No, Mister President," Charlie came back quickly. Too quickly. "That's not it at all. We've been sleeping together for kind of a while."

Oh shit. Oh shit. Did he actually say that?

Horror crossed his soon-to-be-former employer's and never-to-be-father-in-law's face. He took a breath and shifted, the eyes clearly warning. "You might want to consider quitting while you're ahead," he advised, limping back around the desk, signaling the end to their talk.

"Yes, sir," Charlie answered automatically. Sound advice. Blew that one. Been nice knowing you, Zoey.

But the impact of the President's mistaken assumption hit him suddenly and he stopped and turned. "Sir?"

The eyes looked up at him, gave him reluctant permission to continue living a few more minutes.

"Would I have your blessing?"

The answer was unexpected. "I'm not the member of the family you should be concerned about at the moment," he said, holding a hand against his vest in a familiar gesture of oration, but no grand speech followed.

"Yes, sir." Nevertheless, it was clear to Charlie that he was indeed the member of the family to be concerned about. "Thank you, Mister President."

And he truly was thankful to Jed Bartlet.

For letting him live. For letting him still see Zoey. For shrewdly, or even accidentally, letting him know that he would not object – in fact might possibly approve – of a marriage.

He emerged into the outer office, almost home-free, but stopped, hand still on the door knob, took a breath, and stepped back through, protocol ignored. Still standing behind that grand desk, Jed Bartlet looked up, an unexpected lack of surprise on his face.

Quickly, before he lost the nerve, he asked quietly, "Sir?"

A long moment passed as their eyes locked, cool blue assessing warm brown. No one moved. No one spoke. Finally, the President pursed his lips, then pressed them together in an almost-smile. With a nod so slight that Charlie almost missed it, he returned his gaze to the papers he held.

Heart pumping wildly, Charlie suppressed the grin only as long as it took to close the door back, his attempt at a dignified calm struggling with the elation that simple moment had brought. His confidence grew as he strode into the outer office, noticing Debbie Fiderer's curious – and almost disappointed – gaze. Perhaps she was expecting him to be carrying his head – or other more pertinent body parts – in his hand. But he merely nodded briskly at her and continued on his way.

"You wanna make an honest woman out of her?" the President had asked.

As Charlie contemplated the thought, the grin broke out in earnest.

END


End file.
